


Be Enough

by Earthiana



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adopted Teens, Adoption, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens Fluff, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Developing Relationship, Gay, George Washington is a Dad, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Poor Alexander Hamilton, Relationship(s), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earthiana/pseuds/Earthiana
Summary: Alexander's transition to living with Senator Washington and his established family is not an easy one. How will things change when he meets his new brother's best friend?ORJohn helps Alexander face the shadows of his past.





	1. The Party

_It starts with an innocent party._

“Don’t leave your drink lying around.” Lafayette warns his younger brother, brushing his long mane of curly hair out of his face.

Alexander follows Laf quickly, sticking close as the party bustles around them.

“Your friends are here, right?”

Alex’s eyes widen as he grasps Laf’s arm. “Can’t I stay with you?”

“I’m not going to hang around with a fifteen year old, it’s lame.” Laf shrugs, brushing Alex off. “Go find your own friends.”

“I didn’t even want to come here, Laf, can’t we go home?” Alex asks, drawing his eyes across the room. The spacious house has patrons ranging from Alex’s age, trying to fit in a sneak drinks, to college students, smoking cigarettes and pot.

When he turns back to find his brother, the French boy has disappeared, leaving him alone in the swarm of teenagers.

Eliza’s supposed to be here, Alex reminds himself. Just having moved to town, he doesn’t know many people and he hadn’t even considered the party that the kind girl in his English class suggested, however Laf had different ideas.

He glances through the waves of taller teens, searching for any one of the three Schuyler sisters.

A swaggering beer pong competitor knocks into him, then glances in his direction like a hungry zombie.

Alex really isn’t used to parties. Or crowds. Or people in general, really, and the sheer amount of bodies, incapacitated and rowdy, crammed into the house makes him nervous.

He scratches at his wrist, looking between the pong player (still staring at him) and the door. Silently, Alex backs away from the lumbering half-wit and pushes past the sea of bodies in the direction of the garden.

Steeping outside is like breathing fresh air for the first time. Alex chokes on the pollution of the party, searching for a quiet place to lay low until Laf decides to take him home. He trudges across the grass of the expansive garden to a lonely tree. The trunk grates against his back as Alex sinks to the grass, taking heavy gasps as he tries to relax.

_It’s just an innocent party._

Alex reaches for his new phone with trembling hands, scanning through the list of his contacts.

**Recent: Martha, George, Laf.**

Alex presses hard on Laf’s name and presses the phone to his ear, listening anxiously.

“Eh?” Laf answers, sounding slightly drunk (How long has Alex been panicking?) on the other end.

“Laf, it’s Alex. I want to go home, please can we go home now?” He runs a hand up and down his thigh, wiping off sweat from his hand. “George will find out that we’re—”

“Stop acting like a kid and jus’ drink like any normal person.” Laf groans on the other side. Distantly: “What? No, it’s just my—”

The call cuts off but he continues staring at the screen for longer than he should. His eyes, now brimming with tears, shifts to George’s name on the screen.

Alex touches the name and puts the device to his ear, waiting for the dials to stop.

“Alexander? Where are you?” George asks, his voice laced with concern.

Alex’s stomach feels as if it’s digesting a rock. George is the first foster father he’s had who hasn’t been a raging brute. He breathes in heavily through his mouth, gulping around a lump in his throat.

“I-I’m… I’m not sure – I’m at a party. Laf said—”

“Lafayette is there?” George’s tone turns harsh. “Put him on the phone.”

“I don’t know where he is.” Alex draws his eyes down. “He won’t talk to me.”

“Martha is calling him now.” There’s shuffling in the background, as if George is getting dressed. “We’re going to talk about this when you get home, Young Man.”

“Yes, Sir.” Alex whispers, almost unsure if his voice can be heard through the phone. He wipes fresh tears from his cheeks, trying to keep his voice calm.

  


“Lafayette, what were you thinking?” George demands, dragging the French boy towards where Alex is waiting at the front of the house. The crowd is dispersing quickly at the sight of the senator, driving off in cars and leaves in groups. “Bringing Alex to some kind of frat party – he’s fifteen years old! You shouldn’t be drinking, either, at seventeen.”

“It’s just a party and I only had a few!” Laf defends himself, glowering furiously at Alex.

“You should be in bed, having none.” George snaps, pushing the boy in the direction of his black SUV.

Alex follows quietly, scratching at his thumb as George opens the door to the car for Laf to get in, then does the same for Alex. He stares down at the quiet teen, watching carefully as he clambers inside the car. George watches him buckle his seatbelt before closing the door over and rounding the car, climbing in at his own side.

“You have no idea how disappointed I am in the both of you.” George growls as he straps himself in. “How do you expect Martha and I to trust you after you lie to us – deceive us – like this?”

Alex doesn’t say anything as Laf mutters some half-assed apology. His breathing stutters as the car jerks into action, hands shaking as he wipes some wetness from his cheeks.

  


“No car, one month.”

Alex listens from the stairs as George scolds Lafayette, swallowing nervously as he toys with his left sleeve.

“Now, get yourself to bed. No complains, Lafayette, I mean it.” George points in Alex’s direction, causing him to catch the younger boy’s eye.

Lafayette takes to the stairs, shoving into Alex as he passes with a hateful glare.

“Alex, come down here.”

The teen hesitantly gets to his feet and descends the stairwell, avoiding his foster father’s eyes.

“What were you thinking?” He asks, crossing his arms over. Alex watches the movement carefully, eyeing his painful-looking knuckles. “I didn’t think I had to make it clear to you that sneaking out is not allowed and lying to Martha or myself is not without consequence.”

“No, Sir, you don’t.” Alex’s shoulders sag.

“Ah, then you knowingly disobeyed me?” George questions, leaning back against the wall. “I’ll discuss your punishment with Martha and we’ll talk in the morning. For now, you’re going to go to bed and go to sleep. Am I crystal clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” Alex nods his head and doesn’t stick around for George to get any angrier.

He takes to the stairs, stepping up two at a time in his haste. At the top of the stairwell, Lafayette grabs his arm and yanks him closer, gripping him tightly.

Alex stares up at his brother’s eyes, hopelessly at a loss for what to do.

“This is all your fault.” Laf snarls, then drops Alex’s arm and stomps off to his own room.

Alex watches the empty corridor before making his way to his new bedroom, footsteps feather light. He opens the door and slips into the darkness, closing the door behind him. The black expanse of night fills his bedroom like water, drowning him.

Alex slams his fist down on the light switch, draining the room and filling it, instead, with light. His feet take him to his rucksack, drawing back the zipper on the small pocket at the front of the bag. His hand moves to his left sleeve, uncovering his forearm, as he takes a small blade from the bag and turns it between his fingers.

His arm is a map of poorly cut borders and, playing cartographer, Alex presses his utensil to the surface of his arm and digs deep, drawing a line vertically up his arm. His feet buck out with the pain, the shock, but it’s over soon. The blade has stopped cutting and Alex’s hand is limp, severed at the wrist. He’s in too much pain to even consider touching the blade that is still embedded in his wrist so, instead, he slumps against the wall and watches his arm bleed out over the wood flooring.

It’s easier this way. George won’t have to hit him for misbehaving, Laf won’t hate him, and Martha… Martha won’t have to play mother to a cursed child.

Deep breaths turn into short gasps of air as his entire arm grows tingly and numb at the same time.

Alex looks down at the blade, then slowly works his fingers around it and pinches the wet metal, tears streaming across his cheeks as he makes an attempt to tug it free.

His left hand isn’t working, isn’t moving like it should be, as Alex clips the inside of his arm with the blade, no real force behind it as he tries to pull the thing free. When the small thing is finally in his palm, Alex throws it across the floor. It travels halfway across his bedroom, just at the foot of his four-poster bed.

He considers that ruining the floor wouldn’t be very nice of him, especially after George and Martha gave him a real bedroom, one with furniture and functioning windows, so he struggles to his feet. His vision blurs as he crosses the room to his door, smearing blood over the handle as he tries to twist it open. The lubricant causes his hand to slide over the handle but, eventually and with a lot of effort Alex doesn’t have, it opens. Alex’s blood has accumulated at his feet, dripping a trail after him.

He pants – heaves – as he ambles across the hall. However, his breathing slows down again, at the same time that Alex’s head tilts to one side. He leans on the wall for support but hi body is tilting in the other direction.

He doesn’t feel himself connecting with the floor.


	2. The Hospital

“You weren’t even watching him. I need you to understand that Alex is two years younger than you and that he might have made a mistake at that party.” George smoothes the curly hair of his son, sitting on the edge of Laf’s bed. “What if he drank too much or took something he shouldn’t? What if you made a mistake?”

Lafayette glares at the other side of his bedroom, then meets George’s gaze.

“I don’t want to be strict with you, I just want my boys to be safe.”

“He got me in trouble.” Laf’s eyes soften, but his scowl is still prominent.

“You got yourself in trouble by lying to Martha and I.” George tugs on his earlobe lightly, making Laf look at him once more. “He was scared, Lafayette, you left him at a party where he doesn’t know anyone.”

He tilts his head down, grimacing.

“I love you.” George tells the boy, then raises to his feet. “Go to sleep, Laf. I’ll see you tomorrow. And I would like you to apologize to Alex over breakfast.”

They bid each other goodnight as George stands, walking to the door. When he opens it, his heart all but stops.

The newest addition to his family is spewed out on the floor in a puddle of red, blood from his wrist staining the wall in a smeared handprint.

“Alexander.” George approaches the body hesitantly. He stops beside Alex, sliding down the wall as a gasps draws in through his trembling lips. George’s fingers trace the open wound on his child’s arm as his life spills across the floor.

His chest lurches as his grip on the teenager tightens. George lifts Alex to his chest, drawing his little one close as his fierce protector. The dim light in the hall seems to smolder into red, Alex's blood in every corner of George's vision. His sullen face, white as chalk, passes a shuddering sob as his son dies in his arms, losing the life he scarcely lived.

“Just stay alive, stay alive for us.”

  


“Alexander!” Martha weeps, reaching out as the boy is carted into an ambulance on a gurney.

George pulls her back, smearing her night dress with red as he holds her close.

Lafayette watches the flashing lights of the ambulance, his lips agape as the limp body of his little brother, his petit lion. His mouth agape, he looks desperately at George, who nudges him towards the ambulance.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital.” George wipes a hand over his face. His eyes are dark and riddled with tiredness.

Laf runs towards the open doors, watching in horror as Alex is hooked up to an IV, crimson blood coloring the tube into his arm.

  


Alex’s eyes open hesitantly.

“Alex, Son, you’re safe. You’re ok.” George’s voice is raw and quiet in his ear but his eyes keep blinking, too heavy to keep open. He’s somewhere white, he knows that much, and George is with him. Pawing at his face and pressing his lips to Alex’s temple like a lovesick puppy.

“Maman.” Alex chokes out as soon as he can open his eyes. The blur of white, his eyes straining to see the figure across the room, divinely beautiful and pale as snow. “Maman, Maman.”

He tries to twitch his fingers, reach out to her. The white figure.

Alex sees the ghost, the one with skin as soft as sand and a voice that sounded sweeter than any songbird. Round, silvery face. Sparkling from head to toe in a moonlight gown, her hair made from ivory and her eyes made from stars. Hands outstretched to him, ones that cradled his face when the hunger pains became too much.

“Maman!” Alex shouts, straining against what feels like some kind of restraint. “ _Mummy!_ Maman!”

“Alex, hush. Deep breaths.” George’s voice again, directly in his ear. There’s more kissing on the top of his head and pawing at his damp hair.

Alex glances to George, focusing his energy on finding his adoptive father. His face comes into view with his forehead creased into a frown. Alex hurriedly glances back at the whiteness, finding no figure waiting for him.

“M-Maman…”Alex whimpers, tears dripping from his cheeks as his lip starts to tremble.

George wraps his arms around Alex, drawing the small boy into his chest. “Hush, it’s alright.”

Alex chokes out a sob, then stares at his lap, where leather restraints are pinning down his waist and forearms. His wrist is bandaged and wrapped in gauze.

He’s in a hospital.

Alex immediately starts screaming and fighting against the padded straps, flinching when George reaches out to him. His eyes flit to a nurse who enters the room, squirming and bucking in an attempt to get away when she approaches.

“Wanna go home!” Alex cries, leaving his torso towards George because everything else is pinned down and the nurse keeps talking to him – something inane – and touching his arm.

“There’s no need to be scared.” George stands up, moving Alex back into place. “I’m afraid you have to stay for a while more. You lost a lot of blood, Alex.”

George waves off the nurse when she causes Alex to buck again, for which the boy is eternally grateful.

“You could have died.” George sits on the edge of the bed once more, gently reaching out to stroke Alex’s wet cheek with his thumb. He studies every inch of the child’s face, perhaps trying to notice things that he never has before. “Alex, you almost _died_ , you tried to…”

George wipes a hand over his own face, sighing into his palm, then grabs Alex in a bear hug that he can’t return, even if he wanted to. “I prayed to every god I could name that I could hold you like this, that you’d be ok.”

Alex sniffles against George’s shoulder, a rock nestled in the pit of his stomach.

“Never scare me like that again.” George growls in his ear, then plants a kiss to Alex’s head.

  


They take the restraints off quickly when it becomes clear that Alex isn’t going to try anything.

Martha fussed over him for hours when she and Lafayette returned from the hospital cafeteria. Alex’s brother, however, doesn’t say anything to him and, instead, sits with his head lowered.

Alex spoons a mouthful of red jello, swallowing the treat half-heartedly. George smoothes a hand over his sweaty hair, which is tangled and smeared with blood.

“Alex, we realize that you’ve been hurting yourself for quite some time now.” George starts, watching Alex eat his dessert. He ate his dinner readily enough with no complaints about hospital food. In his usual way, he asked for ‘anything’ and scoffed his meal with gusto. At least his appetite remained unaltered. “And we’re going to set up some sessions with a therapist.”

Alex opens his mouth to protest, but then fills it with the jello that’s already on his spoon, as if to avoid wasting it before he gets into any arguments.

“We can try out a few, if we need to. Anything it takes.” George pats a hand on his shoulder. “But this is non-negotiable.”

Alex doesn’t answer. He spares a glance, instead, to Lafayette, who makes eye contact. Their exchanged look is without emotion – there’s no signs of angry or sadness on either side. Despite this, their chests experience a similar ache, unbeknownst to either party.

Alex doesn’t answer.


	3. The Mall

Alex is released from the hospital after two days of looming nurses and needle-wielding doctors.

George wraps an arm around Alex, directing him around like a mama bird. Alex leans in, but only because there’s a cold wind when they leave their car.

The tight bandage around Alex’s wrist is hidden under some long sleeves.

George seems, now, to understand his reluctance to wear the clothes he was bought mere months ago. They’re short-sleeved.

Now, there’s no more gentle suggestions to wear different clothes. Instead, he’s supposed to go ‘shopping’. That means George and Martha and a very much coerced Alex. There may have been some persuading necessary with George also, as a matter of fact.

Martha smiles with her teeth hidden, Alex finds when she looks at him. She has brown hair and warm eyes and the femininity only causes him to yearn more for the lovely ghost he caught a glimpse of at the hospital.

George looks nothing like his father, or what he remembers of the man. With blue eyes and reddish-chestnut hair, the man contrasts greatly to Alex's tan skin, brown eyes, and blackish brown hair. Alex couldn't look any less foreign, both to this country and this family.

Alex follows George in the mall, leaving only a few small steps between them as they tour the place. When George turns to him, he jumps back and stands in hunched attention.

The boy flinches and jolts so much around the crowded building that he dares to grab George’s coat. The man wraps an arm around the child's shoulders, herding him away from the crowd. Alex flinches but leans in to the touch, darting along beside the man and his wife, trying his best not to get lost.

“Good boy.” George puts a hand on his head and he flinches instantly. However, instead of tugging his hair, the man ruffles his limp curls fondly. “Come along.”

  


Alex then spends hours trailing around shops after Martha, protesting vehemently to the minor expense she insists on spending on him.

“I don’t need three pairs of shoes!” George hears Alex arguing with Martha before he decides to arise from the seat. He moves several bags to the floor, leaving them with the too-happy-for-their-own-sake bodyguard of the day.

“Now, now, Dear.” George placates his wife. “Why don’t you have a look around? Alex and I will be over at the clothes.”

Martha hums reluctantly, turning to wander some more. George sees the boy’s hands shake as he glances, agitated, at the bags.

“Alex?” George questions softly.

“Yes, Sir?” Alex whispers at his feet, thoroughly resigned.

“Shh!” George stage whispers, grasping the boy’s attention; Alex looks up with sad eyes. “Hush, you don’t want us to be captured, do you?”

“C-Captured, Sir?” Alex asks slowly, his eyes meeting George’s nervously.

“British Admiral Howe’s got troops on the water!” George exclaims, gesturing to the ignorant shoppers. “New York harbor’s swimming with them. As my esteemed aides-de-camp, what do you think we should do?”

Alex stares for a long moment and he thinks he’s losing the boy before he exclaims hurriedly. “We have to retreat.”

He seems to have understood the scenario so George nods, looking around for a quiet spot where Alex can calm down. He notices no-one near the toddler’s clothes and directs him in that direction.

Alex looks grateful as George waits on him, listening to the boy’s deep breaths until they steadily grow quieter.

“And my right hand man.” George lightly ruffles the boy’s hair, not missing his flinch. He does seem to enjoy the intimacy, however. “So what’s the situation, Alex?”

The nervous grin falls away quickly. He ducks his head, mumbling. “General Washington’s wife is spending too much money on Colonel uniforms. The troops don’t need very much, Sir.”

“And what if the troops would like to wear different uniforms?”

“The troops don’t.”

“And what if the troops get cold?”

“We must make the best of those ills which cannot be avoided.”

“Alex, I want you to know that Martha and I only want the best for you. You deserve clean clothes and you deserve shoes that aren’t falling apart.” George says, careful not to worry the trembling boy.

“At the very least, go collect seven T-shirts, three pairs of trousers, seven pairs of underwear and socks, and two pairs of shoes. Deal?” George offers. “I’ll convince Martha not to get you anything else.”

As Alex turns to leave, he hurriedly calls out “And don’t leave the store!”

  


Why, oh, why did he leave Alex alone?

George looks around frantically with Martha, looking for the young boy. It’s only when he spots a crowd of people and hears shouting by the cash registers that he sighs deeply.

Alexander Hamilton, in all his glory stands in the middle of the ring of people, half of which are recording the event on their phones.

He gestures frantically to the couple behind him. Two appreciative-looking women stand behind him.

Alex’s tyrant seems to be directed at an affronted-looking man.

“We all have a sexual orientation and a gender identity, and this shared fact! All people, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity, should be able to enjoy their human rights! The rights the American people fought so long and hard to get!” Alex shouts furiously. “‘Gay marriage harms the sanctity of traditional marriage’? The ability of same-sex couples to get married doesn’t alter a single aspect of heterosexual marriages! The legal rights and benefits of heterosexual couples are completely unaffected by the existence of gay marriage! And many things were traditional in history! How about Prohibition on land ownership by people without royal blood? Ritual human sacrifice? Curing medical ailments with spells and magic?”

Alex stops to breathe only for a split second. “So please tell me exactly why this innocent and clearly in love couple shouldn’t be able to express their love in a public setting because news flash: we aren’t living in the 1800’s!”

Alex preens at his obvious victory as the man stomps off, ranting about arrogant ‘children’. That is, until he notices George and immediately pales, darting like a deer around its hunter.

“Alex!” George grabs him somewhere near the suits. Alex squirms, wriggling to get out of his grasp, but George pets his hair to let him know that everything’s ok.

“Situation, Soldier?” George asks, chin resting on the boy’s head.

“Ambush.” Alex stutters out.

“I think you’ve mistaken an ally for an enemy.”

Alex pushes away from George but, thankfully, doesn’t bolt again.

“Don’t disappear on me like that again, do you understand?” George clears his throat, nodding. Then, he glances down at Alex. “You were very well-spoken back there.”

Alex doesn’t answer him. However, even as Martha bustles over to scold the both of them, George doesn’t forget the confident look on his ward as he debated his issue.

Something to think about.


	4. The Hurricane

Lafayette is waiting when he returns home. Alex knows he isn’t cruel, but his attitude at the party had hurt him, regardless of intention.

“Captain, what's our situation?” George asks in the boy's hair, making him glance up quietly. Lafayette pays no mind to them, curled on the couch watching TV.

“A French marquis is coming to be aide-de-camp.” Alex murmurs.

“Ah, Marquis de Lafayette?” George asks thoughtfully. “He's a good ally, maybe you would both like to work as aide-de-camp?”

Alex shakes his head quickly. George holds Alex’s face between his hands, gently smoothing his hair.

“Well, it's good that Commander Lafayette isn't my helper, then, isn't it?” George says sweetly, bribing him with words. “I have Alexander Hamilton.”

Alex looks doubtful. “Can I have troops, too?”

“Much too dangerous.” George smiles apologetically. Alex's face falls again when he catches sight of Lafayette.

“Lemme go!” Alex snaps. “I don't like him! I don't like you!”

“Alex.” George gathers him back, pressing Alex’s face to his chest in a tight hug. He sniffles and pushes George away, hurrying in the direction of the stairs. He takes them two by two, already feeling horribly light-headed when he reaches the landing.

His feet pause at the sight of a lost shadow on the hardwood floor. His blood is a black patch, a ghoul looming underneath his feet.

Martha gently approaches him from behind, her hand resting on Alex’s shoulder like a perched dove.

“We’re having it cleaned.” Martha lightly squeezes his shoulder, then guides him in the direction of his bedroom.

Alex draws his eyes down at her hushed tone. Going into his bedroom, he notices his bag, stained with sea water, is crumpled in the corner, looking ready to fall apart. Its zip is drawn back, opened, and Alex feels his feet moving towards it hurriedly, hands groping at the worn fabric. Inside, his books are all accounted for. Seven notebooks, stuffed with stray sheets of paper. One is completely brown with water stains, while the others range from covering half of the pages to small corners. His fingers trail over the spine of a leather bound book, his most recent.

Alex closes the zip, shoving the bag under the far most corner of his bed for safekeeping.

“We had to check, to make sure you wouldn’t…” Martha trails off, her eyes bright. Smiling with hesitant lips, she guides him onto the bed, bundling him in his fluffy blanket. “You’re angry?”

“I didn’t want to go to that dumb party – there were too many people.” Alex murmurs, face buried in the white and black fluff of the throw.

“Lafayette is receiving his punishment.” Martha tells him, brushing back his thick locks of matted hair. “Perhaps you should tell him how you felt? I’m sure he was simply trying to show off.”

_Alex struggled underneath the fallen pillar, kicking his feet in the water-filled ditch. His eyes scan the whipping wind, knocking bricks and trees across the ground like dust. Bleeding bodies flood the landscape with blood, their rolling eyes heaven bound._

Alex shakes his head, crawling towards the head of his bed. He picks at the edge of the sheets.

“A nap is a good idea, Dear.” Martha stands up, slowly, and pulls back the covers. Alex slips underneath, then feels the gentle pressure of the duvet being tucked in on his sides. He glances at Martha, who smiles kindly at him in return, then turns his focus to the ceiling.

Heaven bound.

  


“Lafayette, Alex and I will be staying home today, if you would like to join us?”

Alex hears the offer after hurrying downstairs, worried that no-one woke him for school. He steps into the kitchen, where Lafayette, typically kempt and proper, is staring silently at his cereal, hair sticking in all directions.

“Good morning—” George starts but Alex cuts him off.

“I’m not missing school.”

George gestures for him to approach the table, which he does, and takes Alex’s hand. “Yes, you are, Young Man. You need to rest.”

Alex looks at Laf, who is staring at him quietly. The eye contact doesn’t waver when Alex meets it.

“We’ll watch a couple of movies. It’ll be fun.” George pats him on the back, suddenly. “You need to wash, Alex. Come here, I’ll wrap your arm.”

“I don’t—I don’t want to miss school.” Alex replies, frozen in position. How can he get smarter if he doesn’t attend school? How will he get into college? George isn’t making any sense.

“Alex, you lost a lot of blood and you’re not going anywhere without supervision.” George stands up, looking down at the smaller boy. “Now, bath or shower?”

“I don’t want—”

“Alexander Hamilton.” George says, crossing his arms.

Alex looks at his arms, the muscles bulging through his tight shirt, and steps back. Washington immediately un-crosses his arms, but continues to look stern.

“Shower.” Alex mumbles, watching George carefully as he leaves the room.

“Go on.” Martha smiles easily, gesturing for him to follow.

  


His memories appear and disappear of their own accord.

The shower is ice cold.

Each drop is a cannon sounding off in the distance and the collective pattering is a battalion of soldiers advancing on ground and in ships. Alex, their common enemy. The scent of soap overcomes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and in the air.

He can’t remember why he’s here.

Here, in a spacious bathroom. His body shivers, a constant twitch that refuses to leave him. It’s partly due to the cold water, the marble tub, the quiet boiler.

_The ditch. Alex was stuck, his foot trapped under the wooden pillar. Struggling, his body thrashed under the debris._

_Rain fell down hard on his face, slicking his curly hair down. As the wind burrowed through the streets, Alex ducked his head in the cubby hole and curled up as best he could, holding his head in his hands._

_Dirty water splashes past his lips._

Partly due to the metallic redness seeping from his mouth.

Taking a shower. A shower after doing chores all day. A shower after labouring, well deserved. Working as a clerk at Beekman and Cruger. That is surely why. He understands now.

That doesn’t explain why he’s curled up on the floor of the tub, fat tears tasting of salt on his lips.

“Son, are you alright?”

A voice he doesn’t recognise calls at the door.

He knows. He knows.

Federation of Saint Kitts and Nevis. Nevis. That tiny island. Living an impoverished existence, living in squalor.

His mother looking at him with unseeing eyes. The scent of rotting flesh choking him.

“Alexander?”

No. He has to do better, he has to work harder. Be smarter than the rest, get his education, that’s what she wanted. He can’t give up. He can’t give up. _Alex, you gotta fend for yourself. You’re astute. You’re non-yielding. They paid to get you to America, they shipped you here so you could overcome, just so you could have a shot._

Before long, hands are scooping up his wet body. Blood seeps from his mouth like pus from an open sore and he prays for it to stop. It stains a new suit.

Alex tries to get away. He tries, he tries, he tries… But he’s being brought back and wrapped in a fluffy towel that holds him tight with vengeance. His sobs are unrelenting and he’s covering the suit in his disgusting tears.

The boy tries to push the man away, to wriggle free of the tightly bound confines of the towel, but he ties himself into a knot. His breathing catches in his throat and he’s gasping, no, gagging. He needs the water to _stop_.

“Alex, Son, take deep breaths.” The insistent voice says close to his ear. Alex manages to plant a foot on the ground and lunges to his feet, only to lose his footing and twist his leg at an awkward angle before falling into a pair of thick arms.

Alex sobs louder, trying to weakly squirm away in desperation. Then he's lifted up and moved. He's being held like a baby. _God, he's such a baby._ A bed – his bed – makes contact with his backside gently as he's rested down.

Then, something covers his head. Something soft and gentle covers his body, hiding him from the water. He chokes out rugged breaths, flinching when George places a gentle hand over his hideaway, rubbing his back soothingly through the protective layer.

“Alex?” Washington asks when his breathing starts to steady. “I need to see your arm.”

He peels back what Alex finds is his duvet, damp now. George reaches for Alex’s left forearm, gingerly undoing the wrappings until Alex’s bare arm is staring him in the face, flushed red and weeping. There’s cracked scabbing but the wounds look raw.

“Good boy.” George tells him after counting the cuts. He squeezes his son’s hand before fishing around in his pocket for bandages. He locates them and starts on wrapping it around his arm.

“Storm.” Alex whispers.

George lifts his head, glances to the window, and then frowns. “It’s sunny outside.”

Alex chances his own glance at the window and George seems to be right.

But he’s not in St Croix.


	5. The Sophomore

“Sit still.” George reminds Alex as he works a comb slowly through the curly, matted hair. Alex typically stuffs it into a messy ponytail, so it’s not as well-tended to as it should be.

Alex is squirming at the tugging, trying to pay attention to the documentary playing on the large TV. He supposes it’s convenient to have this much access to information, even from home.

“When did you last brush your hair?” George asks, struggling with a bunched knot.

Alex shrugs, then grabs his bag. He’d wanted to write in his newest notebook, since it had been a sort of ‘diary’ for him. The last he jotted down was almost a month ago, noting his confusion over sleeping in a bed.

Alex traces the paper with his fingers, when turns the page. He grabs his pencil nib, scrawling messily along the blank paper.

**Tried to kill myself.**

He supposes it should be filled in, even if he doesn’t want to think about it.

George isn’t touching his hair, anymore, it seems as he reaches past Alex’s shoulder, taking the old pencil.

**It was a bad idea – my family needs me alive. Stay alive.**

Alex watches George write, then feels a kiss being pressed to the top of his head. Alex grabs one of his older books, opening the cover. Inside, a newspaper article falls out, ripped to size.

**“the most dreadful Hurricane known in the memory of man … the whole frame of nature seemed unhinged and tottering to its fall … terrifying even the just, for who could stand undisturbed amid the ruins of a falling world …”**

Alex looks at the dark, blurry picture of the hurricane ripping its way through St Croix. Then, after a moment, he scans his book for his own account.

  


Alex is lying on the couch under a blanket when he wakes up. His head lifts slowly as he looks around the empty living room. His bag is on the floor, books packed away. He hesitantly pulls over the zip.

The door opens just as Alex sits back up.

In his line of sight is a face – one dotted with freckles – which he’s never seen before. Alex shifts in his seat, staring openly at the shocked boy, who looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

“John.” He exclaims suddenly, then clears his throat, shifting his gaze. “My name’s John Laurens.”

“Alexander Hamilton.” Alex murmurs softly, his eyes shifting to Laf when he appears in the doorway.

“John, Hercules is in my room.” Laf tells him, then glances at Alex’s arm.

Alex shifts his arm under the blankets as Laf leads John, who is still staring at Alex (Is his hair that messy?), from the room.

He watches the empty doorway for a while before leaning his head back against the couch cushions. His fingers rub against the bandage around his arm absent mindedly.

  


“Gilbert?” George stands at his son’s open doorway with his arms crossed. He glances between Hercules Mulligan and John Laurens, who stare at him uneasily. “A moment?”

Lafayette stands silently, then leaves the room, following George out.

“Alex is downstairs.”

Laf leans against the wall, his eyes downcast. “Yeah.”

“It would be nice if he felt included, don’t you think?” George gestures to Laf’s room, sighing. “You haven’t apologised for taking him to that party. You know he didn’t want to go.”

Laf’s eyes glance to the dark patch on the wooden floor.

George’s eyes track the gaze then turn back to Laf, who seems rather quiet.

“It looks like someone died.” Lafayette says after a moment, reaching up to rub his temple.

“Someone almost did.” George stuffs his hands in his pockets, his left hand curling around his mobile. “He’s your brother, Laf, please make the effort.”

  


Alex fiddles with his blanket. The TV has long been turned off, so there’s nothing for him to do.

He’s really good at doing nothing. His last foster home and its empty bedrooms left him with nothing and he utilised it. At least he has his bag.

“Alex.” Laf stands at the door, staring at the rug. His eyes lift to his brother, who has twisted one corner of the blanket into a cone.

Raising his head, Alex replies. “Yes?”

“Sorry about the party.” Laf murmurs, stepping inside. He doesn’t cross the rug. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Alex lowers his head quietly. “S’ok.”

Laf studies him for a moment before heading back out the doorway. “Come on.”

Surprised, Alex grabs his blanket and hurries to the doorway, having to pause when his head swims. However, he easily follows Lafayette up the staircase to the boy’s bedroom, where that new face from before turns to Alex.

Alexander shuffles, then follows Lafayette to his bed, claiming the spot directly beside him. Lafayette gives him a long glance, looking confused and perhaps annoyed, but he doesn’t say anything.

“This is Alex.” Lafayette gestures to the younger boy, who beams, yet draws in on himself as he smiles.

“We met.” John says immediately, his cheeks lighting up.

“Hercules Mulligan.” The biggest boy introduces himself. “Herc.”

Alex nods his head in greeting, wondering just how comfortable he’s allowed to be around Lafayette right now. The other boy is turned slightly away from him, but Alex could rest his head on the slim shoulder.

He rubs a hand against his head. Laf probably wouldn’t want to touch him, even after a shower.

“So you’re a sophomore?” John leans over, eyes twinkling innocently. Alex takes in the sight of his bushy hair, thinking that it looks a lot like Laf’s, but less curly.

Laf’s hair is fusilli, John’s is cavatappi, and Alex’s is spaghetti. Hercules’ hair is too short to be any type of pasta.

Alex nods quietly, a blush across his cheeks because Laf and the others are juniors and they’re much smarter than he is. Alex had truly expected school to be more interesting, in all honesty.

“But it – it’s almost my birthday.” Alex pipes up. “Then I’ll be 16.”

“When is it?” John rests his head on Laf’s bed.

Alex frowns, then starts counting in his head. It was several years ago that he last had any kind of celebration. It was in the winter and his mother finally had enough money to buy him the book he wanted. A leather-bound journal.

“Winter.” Alex answers, then: “January.”

John gives him an odd look and is about to open his mouth when George shows up at the door, Alex’s bag in one hand.

“Alex, we need to talk.”


	6. The Lion

Alex reaches for his bag but George moves it away, keeping it on his and Martha’s side of the table.

“Alex, Sweetie, where were you born?” Martha asks kindly, just like usual. Her voice is honey.

He isn’t supposed to answer that.

“New York.”

“Alexander, do not lie to us.” George scolds him. “Now, whatever problem we might find ourselves in, it’s not your fault. Do you understand me?”

He averts his eyes, focusing on his bag. Alex reaches for his notebook again but George pulls back the bag. “We can’t work through a problem if we don’t know what it is, Alex. You’re not in trouble, not unless you lie.”

“Honey?” Martha presses.

Alex glances between Martha and George fearfully, the realisation dawning on him that they already know the answer. In either case, he’s in deep trouble.

“Nevis. The Caribbean.” Alex stammers, his hands trembling under the table as he braces for the slap that is undoubtedly due to arrive. “Please, don’t send me back!”

“Calm down.”

Alex flinches when George sets a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Sweetie, why don’t you go back upstairs, play with your brother and his friends?” Martha gives George a look, then rounds the table. She places a hand on Alex’s head, lightly combing her fingers through his hair.

Alex’s eyes are rapidly shifting between his two new parents, anxious as tears threaten to spill over onto his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She pets a hand over his hair, then reaches down to pat Alex’s back. “On you go for now.”

  


Alex doesn’t join the others that night. Instead, he gives some excuse about homework – “You’re not at school, Alex.” – and spends the night writing in his bed, notebook tucked in his lap as he scrawls in chicken scratch about the Washingtons.

Surely, they’re going to kick him out. Charles Lee, his social worker, was shady at best. And that was before Alex spent the next few months sleeping on a dirty mattress in Mr Reynold’s basement.

A tendril of wind whips against his window. When Alex finds the courage to open his eyes, his book and pencil nib are on the floor. The blankets are drawn to his chest, knees and elbows tucked in.

It’s just rain. Just a mild storm, if that.

Alex doesn’t move for a long moment.

The rain turns into falling debris and the putrid stench of rotting flesh all too quickly. Staring in horror at the window – from that wet ditch, his foot trapped in the depths – Alex can feel himself gulping.

Around pooling saliva or muddy water, he’s not sure.

The next crash of wind against his wall makes the drapes shudder. Alex grabs the thick duvet, shuffling off the bed and towards the opposite wall.

“Maman.”

He watches the wind for a long time, or perhaps just a couple of minutes, before a creaking disrupts his vigilance. His gaze shifts to the left, where a tree branch is swinging dangerously close to the glass pane.

Another rumble of wind and the branch snaps, leaves colliding with the window while the wood smacks against the wall.

Alex scrambles for the door handle, dropping his cover in the process. Awkwardly squeezing through the gap, he grabs his duvet and drags it across the hall to the nearest bedroom.

Vaguely, Alexander is aware of a body in the room. However, his vision is clouded by tears as he runs for the bed and stumbles onto the mattress, tugging his blanket after him.

“Alex?” Laf asks sleepily.

Alex burrows under the sheets, giving himself a good layer of protection from the outside gale.

“What’re you doing?” Laf shoves him when he grabs at the boy’s arm, clinging tightly.

“Please let—let me stay, please. Let me stay.” He sobs against the warm arm, gripping tight enough to bruise. His tears stain his ratty hair which, by this point, is falling around his face in messy knots.

Laf shoves the covers away, glaring at Alex’s wet face. After a moment, he wraps his arms around the younger boy and pulls him closer.

“What’s wrong?” Laf knees his leg.

“The storm—it’s loud and I don’t like it.” Alex whispers, schooling his voice to keep from weeping. “Please, let me stay, Laf, I’ll be good.”

Laf’s eyes narrow. He brushes back his bushy hair, then adjusts the lower half of Alex’s duvet so it’s properly arranged on the bed.

Snuggling against his younger brother, Laf lightly rubs circles on his back.

“Maman.” Alex whimpers, pressing his eyes closed.

Thoughts of water-logged corpses haunt his thoughts each time he closes his eyes, their bodies bloated and misshapen. Black and green skin, left rubbery by the salt water, is enough to make Alex retch, nothing coming up.

“It’ll be gone by morning.” Laf tells Alex, eyeing him carefully. The younger boy wiggles in closer, drawing up his legs.

Laf continues to tell him things will be fine, never taking his arms from around Alex. In the little pocket of heat, Alex’s eyes remain opened, glued to Laf’s window, watching the raging winds through the open drapes.

“Mon petit lion, go to sleep.” Laf urges him. The French reminds him of his mother’s gentle whispers in their native Creole – mostly French, Spanish, and English – so he prods his brother, urging him to keep going.

“Mon cheri, go to sleep.” Lafayette whispers in his ear, his gentle voice lulling Alex.

  


George stops outside of Alex’s bedroom. It’s 8AM, and Alex is an early riser, but he typically stays in his bedroom. He inspects the ajar door, lightly pushing against it.

Inside, there’s no Alex. His books are scattered and his blanket is missing.

Hurriedly, George crosses the corridor to Lafayette’s room, pushing open the door without thinking. “Laf, have you seen—?”

Inside, Lafayette is cradling Alex, gently keeping the boy in his arms.

While Alex is asleep, Laf looks up at the intrusion. He nods a head towards the window, then runs his hand over Alex’s head, smoothing his hair.

George takes in the sweet sight of his two sons, safe and warm, then silently backs out of the room.

Any questions can wait.


End file.
